


Happy Birthday Mr. British Government

by freckleslikeconstellations



Series: Coming To Terms [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Birthday, Cake, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Holmes Bro Feels, Humour, Mrs. Hudson is awesome, Mycroft Feels, Party Games, Sexual References, grumpy Mycroft, life-size chess set, persistent Reader, series 4 references, thoughtful Mycroft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-03
Updated: 2017-02-03
Packaged: 2018-09-21 03:16:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9529385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freckleslikeconstellations/pseuds/freckleslikeconstellations
Summary: “They want us to play party games!” Mycroft says in a hushed tone, coming to join you.“What?”“F/N please,” Mycroft grabs at your hands and you nearly drop the teaspoon that you’re holding. “I'm begging you.” He looks at you imploringly. “Please don’t go along with it. Don’t let it happen. Don’t subject us tothat.”“I-hey,”you say calmingly, putting the teaspoon aside, before you cup and caress at his hands. “It can’t be that bad can it? What kind of party games?”“Bad ones, horrible ones. Ones that will leave you scarred for life my dear,” Mycroft tries to impress upon you the seriousness of the situation.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hi,  
> This is for SherlyQuinn who requested the prompt: In which Reader is determined to give Mycroft a birthday he doesn't want, and it's, like super embarrassing for him. :) 
> 
> So I really hope you like this Sherly and hope you have an amazing birthday! :D
> 
> I hope everyone else enjoys it too. Thanks to you all for your support. :)

The light plays a game of its own that morning. First it races across the neatly cut lawns. Then it tiptoes upon the golden corn gravel stones of the driveway, before it grows taller and taller, so that it can peer through every window of the house. One window in particular at the top of the house catches its attention and it presses itself against the glass. Finally a chink of it manages to push through the slim gap in the cream curtains and illuminate the married couple in the king-size bed. One half of the couple-a man-is on his back, his auburn hair unusually mused, his mouth slightly open. Whilst the other-a woman-is on her side, her knees bent towards her chest, her hands up by her face and her h/c hair curved down across her shoulders. Her head is almost sliding off the pillow and her body seems keen to tuck itself into the man’s side. The light likes the couple. It finds them pretty and throws different shapes across their faces, toying with them, wanting to play. But it doesn’t seem like the couple like _it_ very much. The woman’s nose wrinkles and both of their faces scrunch up. The man lets out a groan and his hand fumbles. It catches against the woman’s shoulder and pulls her closer to him. The man’s eyes flick open, the blue chinking into different shades as they adjust to the light. The woman lets out a bit of a sound, acknowledging his presence and wriggling closer. 

 

The man-Mycroft Holmes-tilts his head down towards her and rubs at her f/c pyjama jacket soothingly. He’d bought it for her a while ago and the material is soft, satin like. “F/N?” 

 

“Mm?” Your e/c eyes open. You blink for a moment and the light retreats, still watching, but giving you more space to wake. A small smile crosses over your face when you remember what day it is. “It’s your birthday,” you say.

 

“I know,” Mycroft smiles faintly. He can’t help but think of the day when he hadn’t expected to reach this age and he brushes at your hair. “Am I still handsome?” he says, trying to get his mind off it all. 

 

“Mm.” You move to straddle his bare chest, before you pretend to be inspecting his face for lines. “Oh no.” You do a fake gasp. 

 

“What is it?” Mycroft goes along with you, grateful for the distraction that you’re providing him with. 

 

“There’s more here”-you run a finger just beneath his eyes-“And here.” You touch at his jaw line. “I'm afraid that you’re going to have to do a _Dorian Gray.”_

 

Mycroft pretends to consider this for a moment. Your eyes sparkle above him. “Oh well,” he says, rolling you around quickly, so that he comes to be the one on top. “At least I’ve still got you.” 

 

You share a kiss. 

 

“Happy birthday,” you breathe. Mycroft gets a mischievous smile about his face. He makes to kiss you again, but-“There’ll be none of that until later,” you tell him, pushing him off you with some difficulty. You wriggle to the edge of the bed. 

 

Mycroft grasps at your wrist and pulls you with a firm gentleness back to him. “I'm the British Government,” he tells you as your body comes to be lying on the bed once more. He peers over you calculatingly. 

 

“Do you say that to all of the girls?” You blink up at him. 

 

“Only you, and if I'm correct then things haven’t gone too badly since then.” He looks smug for a moment, before he plants an upside down kiss upon your lips. 

 

“If you’re the British Government then surely you have some work to do?” you say as you break out of it. You sit up and throw him a knowing smile over your shoulder, before you bounce into a standing position and get dressed. 

 

Mycroft lets out a sigh and watches you in a rebellious fashion for a moment, plotting all the ways that he can get you back to bed. He stands up and decides to be more domineering about the idea. “F/N I'm the British Government. You have to do what I say.” You smile at his lack of originality. The clock in the main sitting room chimes downstairs. _“Fine,”_ he says, knowing that it’s getting late and that you’re right. You _should_ be getting up now. He makes to get dressed with a frown upon his face. 

 

You look at him knowingly. “Oh, don’t think that you won’t be having any fun today Mr,” you say with some amusement in your tone. “It is your birthday after all.” Mycroft perks up at that, his back growing straighter and his hands tying the blue tie he’s picked out for himself more enthusiastically. You let out a soft, fond breath and leave him for the bathroom. 

 

*

 

“So, I’ll do a few things in my study for work this morning and then maybe we can enjoy ourselves this afternoon?” Mycroft glances at you hopefully. You’re drinking a glass of orange juice by one of the counters in your f/c top and jeans, your side-profile visible to him. Whilst he’s sat at the table, his tie thrown over the shoulder of his grey suit jacket, so that it won’t fall into his toast and one of his fingers touching at a folded newspaper that’s out in front of him. 

 

You turn around properly and look at him with humour inside your eyes, still clutching at your glass. Mycroft can see the stain of juice around your lips and he finds it most inviting. “You wouldn't be trying to set yourself up for a bit of ‘afternoon delight’ would you?” you ask him. 

 

“Well,” Mycroft smiles charmingly at you, “It is my birthday.”

 

You snort into your juice at that, before you pull your head back. Your eyes fix on him unblinkingly. “I am a bit surprised though that you want to spend the whole morning working. I mean I know that this is _you_ we’re talking about here, but it is a Saturday and your birthday after all.”

 

“It is what I would usually do,” Mycroft says, his eyes more troubled now as if he’s wondering whether you might have misunderstood one another at some point. As far as he’s concerned it had always been his intention to work this morning, Saturday and his birthday be damned. That’s what you have to do when you’re the British Government. You have to make sacrifices. Hell, that's what you have to do when you're _him._

 

“Yes, but”-

 

“I thought it was what you wanted in any case?” he asks you a trifle defensively. You look at him. “What you said this morning in order to make me get up?” 

 

Your face softens now. “I was joking love.” You put your empty glass down upon the counter. Mycroft, having finished his breakfast, stands up. “I don’t want you working on your birthday.” You go across to him. “In fact”-you flip his tie back down into place-“I think I’d rather that you didn't.” 

 

That cheeky smile comes back onto his face now and as you push your hands experimentally down his chest he kisses you again. His hands go to your waist, before they snake around your back, pulling you closer. You let out a few pleasurable sounds as you cup the back of his head. Mycroft nudges your lips apart and clutches at you tighter when you moan into his mouth, but then there comes a sudden fervent knocking at the door. “What’s all that hullabaloo about?” he asks, wrenching his mouth away from yours. “Friends of yours?” 

 

“Friends of _ours_ actually,” you correct, straightening his tie.

 

 _“Oh.”_ Mycroft lets go of you. “Of _ours?”_ he says with some surprise in his tone, thinking that you must be mistaken. 

 

“Yes, my friends are your friends and all that,” you tell him patiently. You don’t want to speak of what had happened in Sherrinford before, especially on this day-you know that it wouldn't exactly be the best birthday present for Mycroft-but you find it hard to believe that he doesn’t get the fact that after that day he’d earnt a lot more genuine respect from people and that they wouldn't wish him ill, whether they’d class themselves as friends of his or not. Everyone knows that his heart is in the right place now. Including you. 

 

“Well”-Mycroft says, after thinking about that for a moment. He lets go of you. His eyes go to the table and he decides to pick the newspaper up-“Try and not be too loud won’t you? I have to work.” He makes his way out of the kitchen and to the study. 

 

Rolling your eyes you follow after him, ignoring the sound of further knocking that comes from the front door. “Myc when I said that I’d rather you didn't work today maybe I wasn’t making myself clear?” you say as your husband settles himself behind his desk. He looks at you as if he’s wondering why you’re still there? You let out a little breath. “What I really meant was that there is no way in this whole earth that you’ll be working today.” You go across and stand by him. 

 

As the sound of more knocking comes Mycroft clears his throat irritably. “F/N why are those people here?” he asks. 

 

“I invited them,” you say in a loud tone, “Because it’s your birthday.” Mycroft still looks like his question hasn’t been answered. “I wanted them to help celebrate with us.” If possible Mycroft’s face just scrunches up all the more. He looks like a dog that doesn’t get the command you’ve just given him and you half-expect him to tilt his head. 

 

“But why would you think that anyone needs to come and celebrate with us in the first place? It’s not what one would deem a special birthday.”

 

“Oh, I don’t know.” You blow out a breath now and put your hands on your hips. “Maybe it’s because I love you and you always make me feel special, birthday or not, so I wanted you to get some appreciation for once.” You don’t want to think too hard about the deeper reason. Christ, you’d been so frightened the day that everything had happened at Sherrinford, so worried and left in the dark. Then finally Greg had called. You’d been about to go around to Mycroft's, but then suddenly he’d appeared at your door. You’d never seen him in such a bad state before-

 

“It’s my job to appreciate you,” Mycroft says, cutting through your thought and looking down as he now pulls some papers towards him. You know that he probably doesn’t know where your thoughts are going right now, but that he’s probably just as aware as you are how very lucky he is to be here today. The knocking comes again. Mycroft stops what he’s doing and grows tense, grinding his teeth together in frustration. “I get what you’re trying to do, but there’s really no need for it”-

 

“Why isn't there?” you ask him. 

 

Mycroft looks at you in exasperation. “Because that sort of fuss and fanfare isn't what I desire. All I require is you and our bed this afternoon. That’s enough of a birthday for me.” 

 

“Oh, so you don’t want your cake then?”

 

Mycroft looks conflicted. “Fine,” he changes his mind. “You. Me. Cake. Bed. This afternoon.”

 

“Good.” You fold your arms. “That will certainly give me a chance to try out some of the bedroom tips that Mrs. Hudson’s told me about.” 

 

Mycroft lets out a groan and leans forward dramatically. He puts his head in one of his hands. “You do realize how very wrong that sounds don’t you?” He moves back again and looks at you pointedly. “My brother’s landlady teaching you how to be sexual?”-You blush, but still look firm-“It’s bad enough that you borrowed those handcuffs from her. I would never have used them if I’d known where they’d originated from.”

 

“Thanks for reminding me that I need to give them back to her,” you say, putting a thoughtful finger to your lips. “But if I recall correctly then I didn't exactly give you much choice as to whether you used them or not, My, My.” You twist him around to you, spinning chair and all. “So, what makes you think that I'm going to give you a choice now, huh?” You put your hands on the arms of his chair and nibble seductively upon his lips. Mycroft rubs at your back approvingly. One of your hands goes to his hair and you’re almost on his lap when there comes the sound of more knocking on the door. 

 

He pulls away from you regrettably and faces the front again, as you make a sound of great annoyance. “I need to work.” He tidies his hair up with one hand, whilst he draws a piece of paper towards himself with his other. “To assist me in doing so I’d be most grateful if you could let in whoever it is that’s there now and take them through into the far sitting room”-

 

“Oh no.” You push the piece of paper down from his hands to the desk. “You are not working today Mycroft Holmes. In what universe don’t you understand what I'm telling you? You will come with me to answer the door and for once in your life you will be gracious and happy.”

 

“But why should I be when it’s not what I want?” he pouts. 

 

“Because I'm your wife and it might surprise you, but I’ve put in a lot of effort into preparing for today so that you might have a nice birthday.”

 

“But”-he protests, looking at you-“I never needed any of that. There are other ways of showing your appreciation.” You bend down and suck at his neck in an attempt to get him to shut up and for once in his life do what you want. He tilts his chin up to give you better access. “Like this.” He cups at your hair now. “Why can’t my birthday just be like this?” 

 

“Because Mycroft Holmes,” you say, pulling away from him a little breathlessly, “Sometimes you have to prove to me that I did not get married to a stubborn, whiny child and go along with the social interaction that I have provided for you. This is one of those times.”

 

“Well,” he says, looking rather consideringly at his paperwork, “I suppose there’s nothing urgent that I need to deal with.” He lets out a bit of a sigh. 

 

You look more satisfied at his words. “Come.” You spin him back to you and heave him up by his armpits. Reluctantly he comes to be in a standing position. A rather slouched one. You let out a sigh as you take his hand and lead him out of the study. As soon as you’ve done so you stop diligently, so that he can close the door behind him. You know how precious he is about security around his work. Then you lead him off down the hallway towards the front door. Before you open it you turn back to him. 

 

“This won’t take long will it?” he asks, fidgeting with his cuffs. 

 

“Gracious and happy remember?” you tell him with a sigh, before you turn around back to the door again. Finally you open it. 

 

“God about time. Having a bit of a lie-in were you?” the silver-haired Gregory Lestrade barks in his grey suit, navy belt and white shirt. “Well, at least we know that Mycroft’s already got his birthday present,” he says. 

 

Also standing there are Sherlock Holmes, dressed in a dark suit with white shirt who seems to be assessing both his brother and you very carefully with his eyes to ascertain whether Greg’s words are correct, John Watson who looks uncomfortable in a white and blue checked shirt, navy jacket and light brown jeans-little Rosie must be with someone else today-a half-smiling Molly Hooper who looks just as awkward in her brown dress and necklace as she holds a black clutch purse to her and Mrs. Hudson who looks the most level-headed and calm of them all in her navy dress and beaded necklace of the same colour. The dress has many tiny images of swallows on it. Whilst she’s got a brown handbag dangling from one of her hands. 

 

“Yeah. Sorry about that,” you say a little breathlessly, wondering how to explain things. You notice with some relief that Mrs. Hudson’s Aston Martin is parked on the driveway along with John’s car. “You came in that?” You look between Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock with a bit of a grin upon your face. “You’ll have to take me for a bit of a spin in it later Mrs. H.”

 

“There’ll be no spinning anywhere,” Mycroft says with a growl. He’s still getting over the last time that you’d gone out in it. [“You could have gotten killed F/N!” “Mrs. Hudson’s a safe driver.” “She damn well isn't.” Had been pretty much how the conversation between Mycroft and you had gone.] 

 

You look back at him now feeling both sympathy and annoyance inside you. 

 

Sherlock though chooses that moment to say, “You’re wrong Lestrade.” Both John and Greg look at him as if to say that this is not the time. “If you’d observed the way that my brother’s been looking at F/N with both something serious and calculating upon his face as if he desires something from her, not to mention the unfortunate tightness of his trousers, then I think that you might have drawn another conclusion. All in all I think it’s fair to say that my dear brother’s had a rather unfulfilling birthday so far.” 

 

You let out a squeak of breath at that and both Mycroft and you shift your positions. Mycroft looks to the front again as both John and Greg’s eyes go to his trousers without being able to help themselves. Your husband clears his throat. “Yes, well”- you say, prompted by the action, but not sure how to continue. 

 

“I think you’ll find the reason for the delay in either of them answering the door is actually because my brother wanted to do things his way today”-

 

“Most ungrateful of you Mycroft Holmes,” Mrs. Hudson buts in loudly. Everyone looks at her. Mrs. Hudson might have been pleased that Mycroft had finally softened enough to let you into his life properly and admit that you’d always been more than the value of the few odd nights that you’d shared together up until that point-not to mention pleased that Mycroft had saved her life, albeit only because he’d been told to-but she always gets angry when he reverts to habit and shows his uncaring side. 

 

“Why don’t you all come inside?” you say, deciding to try and rescue the situation. Everyone begins to do so gratefully. “Mycroft?” You turn to your husband who winces at your demanding tone and give him one of your ‘please go along with this’ smiles. “Why don’t you show our guests into the sitting room? Mrs. Hudson if I could just-?” You pull her aside and the pair of you begin to go upstairs together. As you do so you hear Mycroft emitting a loud sigh, before he begins to lead everyone through the house. “I am really very sorry about the wait just now.” You look back over your shoulder at the older woman. 

 

“It’s fine dear,” she says as you reach the landing. 

 

“If you could just stay here for a moment?” You throw her an awkward smile and duck into your bedroom, pulling out the handcuffs from the drawer of the bedside cabinet with a bit of a blush upon your face. They make a jangling noise and the colour in your cheeks deepens. You take them back out to her. “I-er-I wanted to give these back. Thanks for letting me borrow them.” You frantically try and get the image of Mycroft handcuffed to the bed out of your mind as you say all of this, but it doesn’t work. 

 

“Oh, it’s no problem dear,” Mrs. Hudson says, tucking them inside her handbag as if they’re a completely normal thing to be sharing. “It’s not as if Sherlock was using them, so we might as well.” 

 

You grin a little crookedly at that. She makes to turn back around again. “Erm”-you grasp clumsily at her arm. She turns and looks at you. “That-That cake thing,” you keep your voice lowered. Your hands fidget together. “It er-it’s safe and everything? I mean I know I'm the one who’ll be, erm”-you gesture awkwardly at your body with your hands-“Mostly exposed to it. But Mycroft does seem to have quite sensitive skin at times, so it’ll be all right if er-some of it goes on him?” Every time you think that you can’t blush any more you seem to find a way to. 

 

“Oh yes dear, it should be fine,” Mrs. Hudson says with a bit of a chuckle. “Besides,” she goes on with a twinkle in her eye, “There’s no reason why the men should get to have all the fun.” 

 

“Quite,” you grin, feeling emboldened. 

 

The two of you make your way back downstairs again. When you reach the sitting room all your friends are there. Your husband however is nowhere to be seen. “Where’s Mycroft?” you ask them all suspiciously. 

 

“He said something about getting drinks,” John says from his place on one of the comfortable maroon armchairs. Molly and Greg are standing close by chatting. 

 

“We haven’t seen him since,” Sherlock says knowingly from where he’s leaning against the arm of the chair that John’s sitting on. His eyes glitter with something. 

 

Your body slumps back down. “He’s probably gone to the study.” You pull a bit of a face. “Sorry, he’s being a bit difficult today.” You rake a hand through your hair wishing that Mycroft could just go along with things. 

 

“Exactly where is the study dear?” Mrs. Hudson asks, by your side now and touching at your arm. You frown down at her to see that she’s pulling a rather severe expression. You go on to hurriedly tell her and without further ado she turns and exits the room. 

 

“Er”- you say, before you uncertainly make to follow after her. 

 

“I don’t think you want to get involved there, do you?” you hear John say. You hesitate. You don’t want Mycroft being rude to Mrs. Hudson even though you more than know by now that she can hold her own against him. But still, getting in the middle of one of their squabbles like John said probably isn't a good idea either. Changing your mind you turn and go across to everyone, thanking them for coming despite the fact that the further this day goes along the more doubts you’re having about whether or not this was the right thing to do. You alternate between making a bit of small talk with the others and looking anxiously at the door. 

 

It’s still a surprise to you when you finally hear Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson coming back towards you however. Still a moment that catches you off-guard and sends your chest instantly tight. It’s even more of a surprise when you see how he’s following after her like a meek little schoolboy. 

 

His eyes dart up and down from you as he comes across. Then, in front of everyone, he grasps at your shoulders quickly and kisses you on the cheek. “I'm very sorry if I’ve upset you or seemed like I was being ungrateful at any point today. I of course appreciate every attempt that you’re making and have made to make my birthday a nice one.”

 

Your mouth nearly drops to the floor at that. You look around at Mrs. Hudson who winks at you with some satisfaction about her face, before you look back in a befuddled fashion to Mycroft. “Erm, it’s okay.” You stroke at his arm uncertainly. “Let’s just try and have a nicer day from here on in, yeah?” You straighten his jacket and brush some invisible lint off it. He nods and looks at you gratefully, before he steps back looking more like his usual self. 

 

Greg and John look equally shocked by what Mycroft has been prompted to do in front of them. They've known ever since Sherrinford about his softer side of course, but he’s still been reluctant to show it. 

 

Molly says, “Oh my.”

 

Sherlock looks like he’s being reminded of that time that Mrs. Hudson had stuck him in the boot of her Aston Martin. Whilst Mrs. Hudson herself just looks smug about it all and as if the world has been put to rights.

 

“Okay, um,” you begin, still recovering from what’s happened. Mycroft looks at you. _“I’ll_ go and make some tea for everyone. Mycroft? If you could entertain our guests and perhaps try and mention how glad you are that everyone’s come to see you on your birthday?” Mycroft looks slightly nervous. He knows there’s no _‘perhaps’_ about it at all. ‘Be nice,’ you mouth to him. 

 

He jerks his head forwards, but still looks awkward and like he’s not quite sure how to proceed. As you’re about to leave the room you hear him say, “Dr. Watson. Detective Lestrade.” 

 

You huff out a breath and turn back to him. Mycroft looks alarmed. “John and Greg, Mycroft. John and Greg.” You look at him. _Really._ After all that Mycroft and John had gone through together at Sherrinford and after Greg had helped to make sure that Mycroft was okay afterwards you’d think that your husband could stretch to using their first names instead of pretending that nothing’s happened. “Unless they’d rather that you called them something else of course?” You glance at the respective guests enquiringly. Both of them shake their heads. You smile sweetly at them, before you make to move out again. You stop when you hear your husband muttering something that sounds like a complaint under his breath. “What was that?” You turn back around to him. 

 

“N-Nothing my dear,” Mycroft calls, his voice going all high-pitched. “Just telling Dr- _John_ about what a lovely day it is and how glad I am that it is my birthday.” 

 

Sherlock snorts. 

 

You tilt your head, place a hand on your hip and look at Mycroft. Does he really expect you to believe that? “Yes, of course you were,” you say dryly, before you turn and leave them all to it. 

 

To your surprise when you’re just finishing off making the tea for everyone Mycroft hurries into the kitchen, all wide-eyed and panicked, looking like he’s being chased by someone. _“Mycroft!”_ you say in surprise, before your lips begin to curve downward. “I thought”-

 

“They want us to play party games!” Mycroft says in a hushed tone, coming to join you. 

 

 _“What?”_

 

“F/N please,” Mycroft grabs at your hands and you nearly drop the teaspoon that you’re holding. “I'm begging you.” He looks at you imploringly. “Please don’t go along with it. Don’t let it happen. Don’t subject us to _that.”_

 

“I- _hey,”_ you say calmingly, putting the teaspoon aside, before you cup and caress at his hands. “It can’t be that bad can it? What kind of party games?”

 

“Bad ones, horrible ones. Ones that will leave you scarred for life my dear,” Mycroft tries to impress upon you the seriousness of the situation. You look at him as if he’s being silly. He grasps at your hands and shakes them a little. “Why don’t you tell everyone to go now hmm? Then we can”-

 

You snort, thinking that he’s just exaggerating the situation so that he can get intimate with you. “I'm sure it’s not that bad.” You push three of the cups into his hands and take three of them yourself. You’ll still have to come back for one. Yet you nearly drop the ones you’ve got when you come back to the sitting room. _“Wow.”_

 

The top of the room’s walls have been covered in multi-coloured bunting and white and blue balloons. A navy wrapped present has been put on one part of the floor, whilst the coffee table is full of shot glasses and miniature bottles of alcohol. Two and a half pairs of chairs have been set up back to back to one another in the middle. The vinyl player at the back of the room is primed and ready and to the left a big poster showing a tailless donkey has been pinned to the wall. 

 

“See I told you,” Mycroft whines from behind you, his mind urging you to see how bad this all is. You’d swat a hand at him if you could. 

 

“F/N, Mycroft, welcome to our grown-up children’s party spectacular,” Greg cries, waving a hand as if he’s the ringmaster. 

 

“We decided that we might as well make it as embarrassing for the birthday boy as possible. It just wouldn't be right otherwise,” John provides further explanation, looking like he’s enjoying himself immensely. Mycroft throws him a bit of a glare. That doesn’t put Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson off from looking satisfied though. Molly comes to take the drinks off you. 

 

“We-ll, in that case, let’s party!” You punch the air, deciding that you might as well go along with it. 

 

Mycroft looks horrified. “F/N no,” he moans, leaning forwards. He barely notices as Molly, whose just passed the drinks that you’d been carrying to the others, relieves him of his. 

 

“C’mon Myc,” you say, stepping back and giving him a little nudge. “It’ll be fun.” The look he gives you both tells you not to call him that and that you must be deluded. _“Besides,”_ you turn, stand on your tiptoes and whisper into his ear, “I promise you that we’ll have some fun of our own later.” He looks a bit more mollified at that, but only just. 

 

*

 

After the tea’s been drunk and you’re all ready to go you take your positions on the floor, so that you’re sitting in a circle-“I'm not sitting on the floor F/N!” “Myc, the floor’s spotless!”-for the first game-pass the parcel. Mycroft and you sit next to one another with Molly on your other side, then Sherlock, John and Greg. In the background some very dramatic classical music plays, which Mrs. Hudson is in charge of. 

 

“Right,” Sherlock says very seriously, “We’ll all pass the parcel to one another. Then, when the music stops whoever is holding it will take one layer of wrapping off”- he says all this as if it must be done with the utmost precision, like the parcel is not in fact a parcel, but a bomb. 

 

Mycroft however does not appreciate his dramatics. “Brother mine can we just get on with it?” he asks him in a weary tone. “I'm sure that all of us are aware of what the rules of pass the parcel are.”

 

 _“Rules?”_ Sherlock looks sharply at his brother. “There are new rules here Mycroft. Whoever manages to unwrap what’s ultimately inside will be the winner, and whilst they won’t be obliged to, the rest of us will have to have one drink each.” Everyone aside from Mycroft nods at that. He just rolls his eyes. Sherlock looks at his brother hopefully and you squeeze at Mycroft’s leg until he jerks his head forwards irritably. “The game is on!” Sherlock declares triumphantly. The violins grow more frantic in the background. Sherlock passes the parcel to John. 

 

The parcel does about one and a half rather tense rotations between everyone, before the music comes to a sudden stop. You all freeze up and glance at one another. Molly unwraps the first layer, revealing a new pink covering. Mycroft pulls a bit of a face at the vibrant colour. 

 

"Don't you like it? Is it a bit too girly for you Mycroft?" 

 

Mycroft looks up to see that Eurus-in the way that she'd been as a child-is standing diagonally opposite from him, just outside the circle. It had been her who had spoken. She's wearing a pink dress and holding a blood red balloon. Her eyes are staring directly at him. Mycroft looks around. He knows that this can't be real-he's all too aware of course of what Eurus looks like now, half the time he sees her every time he closes his eyes-but he can't help but feel cold from the whole thing. Cold at her being here as she observes another game. A near shiver runs down his spine. He swallows and flexes his hand. Sherlock looks his way, but Mycroft doesn't notice. 

 

You meanwhile are caught up in the game. You can feel something through the package better now. Something soft that doesn’t seem to cover everywhere, as if it has holes each time that the parcel comes to you. You’re keener than ever to find out what it is and you suspect that the current dark green wrapping, which hides it will be its last. 

 

Suddenly the music stops on John. Biting at his lip a little your friend slowly pulls the covering off. Much laughter and choked gasps ensue when what you’ve really been passing around all this time finally gets revealed. 

 

“Oh my God! Is that a mankini?” you exclaim, staring at the lime green monstrosity that John’s slowly holding up with a furrowed brow. 

 

“Why F/N? Wishing that Mycroft had won it?” Greg teases, already swigging down his shot. You stick your tongue out at him. 

 

“I think we all know who bought this. Though I'm not saying anything.” John jerks his thumb towards Mrs. Hudson. Everyone but Mycroft laughs. “I'm not going to stand in the way of the birthday boy either.” John throws the mankini at Mycroft. It lands on his lap and the British Government plucks at it in an unimpressed fashion. 

 

“I'm not wearing that. Not to satisfy anyone’s fantasies.” He looks at you. 

 

“You wearing that would be more like one of my nightmares actually,” you quip.

 

 _“Ouch!”_ Greg and John chink their shot glasses together. 

 

“Isn't it your colour brother dear?” Sherlock says. “Perhaps you’d prefer a blue one instead?” 

 

Mycroft scowls at him, his mood further dampened by the severe tingling that he feels in his hand at Sherlock's words. “I would not prefer it in any colour. It’s a terrible excuse for a piece of clothing.” You’d have to say that you agree with him, but in the interest of not letting Mycroft sour the mood you pour a bit of alcohol from one of the small bottles into two of the shot glasses and hand one of them to him. He glances between you and the glass for a moment. Then he lets out another sigh, before he raises the glass and sniffs at it mistrustfully. He’s still doing that though by the time that everyone else and you have downed yours so you give him a prompting nudge. He finally drinks it and wriggles his nose cutely, not appreciating the taste. You kiss at his cheek to help him get it down. He sends you a grateful look and you grab at his arm, looking up at him fondly. 

 

With Mrs. Hudson once more in charge of the music-this time _Marilyn Monroe_ singing _‘Happy Birthday Mr. President’_ -the rest of you begin to play musical chairs where every loser once more has to have a drink. There are some funny incidents. Both Molly and John nearly end up sitting on Sherlock at the same time, Greg does some funny rolling movements with his hands as he walks around and around and the game reaches its final round with only Mycroft and you left standing. As the music stops for the last time you gesture that Mycroft should be the one to take the seat-to much annoyed cries from Greg and John in the background-and after one last glance at you to make sure that it’s okay to Mycroft does so. You waste no time in sitting upon his lap and whispering, “Happy birthday Mr. British Government,” into his ear. Mycroft smiles. He doesn’t mind playing games if they all end up like this. Once more though he’s reminded that not all of them do and that he’s very lucky to be here. He pushes you off him abruptly. You look at him in surprise, not realizing how close he is to losing control, but knowing that something’s wrong. Its caught the attention of the others too and you decide to take a short break for lunch at that point, so you can keep an eye on Mycroft in an easier fashion than trying to do so when you’re caught up in playing a game. 

 

Amongst the excited chattering that you conduct with the others throughout lunch you notice that Mycroft says little. You wouldn't expect him to be the rowdiest in the group, but the fact that he stays close to your side-helping you to make lunch in his blue apron that you'd encouraged him to wear, which has a silhouette of a white crown upon it and the words _'His Lordship'_ beneath it in the same colour -which is as clingy as Mycroft Holmes gets in front of a crowd and the fact he keeps giving you these odd little looks as he sits diagonally across from you, supposedly undercover, makes you feel concerned. You glance at him as you stand to collect everyone’s plates and he smiles in a strained fashion at you catching his gaze, before he looks away from you again. You watch in the next moment, as he gets up and heads towards the front door. The chatter amongst the group dies. You catch Sherlock looking just as worried as you about the fact that Mycroft’s suddenly choosing to separate himself. 

 

“Is everything-?” Greg jerks his head back to where the British Government has just gone out the front door. 

 

You look at him, before your eyes go back to the now deserted hallway. “Yeah.” You force your eyes back to Greg, shrugging a little. “Yeah, I'm sure that everything’s fine. He’s probably just finding the social interaction a bit difficult,” you try and make a joke of it all. “Why don’t you all head back into the sitting room and get everything set up for the next game? Mycroft and I will be with you shortly.”

 

Everyone nods and you duck your head in relief as the mass scraping of chairs begins and everyone starts to depart. You turn with your stack of plates and put them in the sink. You begin to run water over them and your shoulders slump in relief as you hear everyone’s voices-but primarily Greg and John’s-getting further away. You just need a moment to think about all of this, before you go out and face Mycroft. You've got a horrid feeling that the reason for him acting this way is because of what had happened at Sherrinford before and you don’t know what to do about it or how you can possibly make him feel any better. 

 

You don’t see Sherlock oscillating back and forth and changing his mind between following the others and talking to you, so you jump and let out a bit of a sound when he says, “Listen.” You switch the tap off automatically and turn around quickly, your heart racing as you see him standing there, on the other side of the table, scraping a hand across his jaw. “I think I got today wrong.” Your heart skips a beat at the vulnerable and almost pleading look he’s giving you with those multi-coloured eyes of his. He takes his hands out of his pockets, unclenches them and waves them about. “We used to play games as children. Mycroft, Eurus and I, though mainly Mycroft and I…especially after Victor…” Sherlock trails off. You nod at him encouragingly. “I think Mycroft did it to monitor me, played board games and such. It was one of the reasons I wanted to do all these silly party games today. To keep an eye on him, but to remind him that not all games have to be like-like the one that Eurus did. That some of them can be happy.” He swallows now and ducks his head as he shifts his position. His fingers tuck back inside his pockets. “It sounds silly. I mean obviously we can’t forget about what happened…” he trails off somewhat regretfully now and you know that he’s probably wondering how he could have blotted out what had happened with Victor and Eurus in the first place. “But we have to keep moving on don’t we?” He looks at you rather desperately now and your heart hitches inside your chest. 

 

“Yes we do,” you say quietly. 

 

“For little Rosie’s sake if nothing else.” Sherlock nods, encouraged by your words. “I want to play board games with her as she grows up,” he says and you feel emotional because of the mental image that his words give you. “I don’t want to stop everything just because…” He looks down again. “But I think this has all turned out a bit not good.” He sighs heavily and you know that no matter how far he’s come he still thinks that he’s got some way to go. “It’s just reminding Mycroft of all the darker parts of Sherrinford instead.” Sherlock forces a brave half-smile at you, but soon looks like he’s trying not to cry. 

 

It’s then that you stop doubting yourself and feel convinced that bringing everyone together here today had been the right thing to do after all. You’re all survivors of what had happened and sometimes it’s good to talk about it just like Sherlock’s doing now. You go across and hug him very gently, your hands on his shoulders and your body no more than a brush against his. “It’s all right,” you say as you pull back. You rub at his shoulders. “I think it was a good idea, to get us interacting like this”-Sherlock looks unconvinced-“Get us all being silly again.” You peck at his cheek. Sherlock smiles. “I’ll go and deal with him okay?” Sherlock nods and you go around him, taking a couple of steps towards the entranceway, before you stop again. “He’ll be all right you know?” You look back at him over your shoulder. 

 

“I know.” Sherlock clears his throat, his back to you. “He’s got you now.” 

 

You take some comfort from that, but you still feel a little apprehensive as you walk down the hallway. Having Sherlock doubt whether the day had been going in the right direction might have erased your own uneasiness and worry about the same thing, but when it comes to knowing how to handle Mycroft’s emotions you’re still learning. You just hope that you can say and do the right thing now, so that the day can become pleasanter again. You move through the front door. 

 

Mycroft’s standing on the driveway. He’s got his back to you and a thin curve of smoke is looping out from him. He doesn’t seem to mind that it’s currently drifting towards the direction of Mrs. Hudson’s Aston Martin. 

 

“You know, just because there’s smoke all over it, it won’t put me off going for a spin in it if Mrs. Hudson asks me to,” you say, your feet crunching against the gravel. 

 

Mycroft looks at you levelly as you join him. “I could have died F/N,” he says, looking back down the driveway again. He tilts the cigarette away ever so slightly, so that all the smoke won’t go on you. You've already complained numerous times about the smell that it leaves on your clothing. “If I had then I wouldn't be here with you today.” 

 

“I know.” Your stomach churns, but as you look sideways at him a wave of determination fills you. “Which is why I'm not going to let you do this right now.” With that you pluck the cigarette right out of his mouth as he looks at you. He lets out a splutter of surprise and gives a cough as you throw the deadly stick on the ground and stamp its fire out. “You could have died. You could have _bloody_ died!” You whack him on the arm. “So I am not going to let you smoke out here, be miserable and kill yourself through cigarettes. Maybe that’s what you did before Sherrinford, but it’s not what you’re doing now. Not under my watch. Not today.” Mycroft looks at you in a scrutinizing fashion. “You've got a brother who needs you,” you tell him imploringly. _“I_ need you. Everyone in there”-you gesture behind you-“Needs you, so you’re going to come back into the house and we’re going to finish what Sherlock’s planned.” By the time that you finish you’re feeling choked with emotion. You turn around and take a couple of steps before you realize that Mycroft’s not following you and spin around again. He’s still standing where you’d left him, but as if he senses that you’re watching him his arm jerks out from his side and his fingers go all splayed as if he wants you to go back there and hold his hand. You do so. “Your brother was so brave today”-

 

“In planning a load of games that remind me of”- Mycroft begins, sounding a little irked. 

 

“No,” you cut him off. “In what he told me just now.” Mycroft peers down at you and you look right back at him. “Can’t you see what he’s trying to do here? He’s trying to send a message to us all, to _you._ Trying to tell us that he wants us all to carry on in a way that’s healthier than the one in which we've been doing.” 

 

“What am I supposed to do?” Mycroft tries to tug his hand free from yours but you don’t let him. “Just forget?” 

 

“No.” You swing both of your arms a little. “None of us can forget now, not now that everything’s out in the open.” You let out a sigh. “I know that, that fact doesn’t change everything. I know there’s still so much, even now, that doesn’t make sense”-Mycroft’s fingers tighten against yours and you squeeze at his hand in return-“Why Eurus is that way? Why she felt so compelled to do all those things even though she’s not the only one whose been lonely?” Mycroft lets out a breath. “But you’re supposed to remember everything that has happened since then. Sherlock going to play the violin to her, them playing together, your parents going…us being together now.” Mycroft looks a little lighter at that. “You’re supposed to remember what all that means.” Mycroft looks at you with a furrowed brow. “It means that you don’t have to do all of this on your own any more. It means that although its been on you all this time it’s not that way now. That’s what Sherlock and I are both trying to tell you. We all get to share in that burden now because we all understand.” Mycroft looks hopeful. “What’s more”-your grip on him tightens-“Is that even though you could have you didn't die at Sherrinford. You’re here. I'm here with you, and, as much as you might hate it, all our friends are waiting inside, so that they can embarrass you some more.” Mycroft looks at you. Something’s twisting at his lips. You think that it might be a smile. “Shall we go and join them?” He nods. 

 

You can’t know what’s running through his head right then, but you sense the way that he’s looking at you appreciatively, as if you’d just done something right and it makes you feel happy. Happy to think that just by you telling him how everyone else and you will be there for him it might have made him feel a little bit better. 

 

You squeeze at his hand and walk back into the sitting room and join the others for the next game. None of them remark upon your long absence and Sherlock in particular looks relieved to have Mycroft back amongst things again. 

 

On the face of it the next game looks ordinary, just a standard one of pin the tail on the donkey, but when Sherlock, with a glint in his eye, turns the poster to reveal that it’s actually pin the umbrella on the Mycroft with the winner being whomever gets the closest to putting the umbrella by Mycroft’s hand it gets you smiling once more, albeit in a watery fashion as you once more feel sorry for all that Mycroft has been through. Typical of Sherlock to have known that by the time you got to that game you might all need cheering up a bit. 

 

Mycroft goes first, taking a shot, before he’s blindfolded and spun around. Sherlock smiles as he spins his brother around and around until he can’t stand straight any more. “I suppose this is what it feels like to be inside Mrs. Hudson’s car when she’s driving,” Mycroft jokes. 

 

You all laugh at that, though Mrs. Hudson shakes her head. You in particular feel relieved at the upward turn that Mycroft’s mood seems to be taking, but still you warn, “No peeking,” when his fingers rake up towards his blindfold. He pretends to scratch at his nose instead and you smile. 

 

Greg pushes the laminated photo of the umbrella into Mycroft’s hand and guides him to stand in front of the poster. 

 

Like a toddler learning to walk Mycroft stumbles forward a little, before he presses the umbrella closer to the photo of himself. You grin and Greg laughs loudly when you see that Mycroft’s put the umbrella, so that it looks like it’s protruding right out of his photo-self’s ear. 

 

“Do you have no sense of anything?” Greg asks as Mycroft pulls the blindfold off himself irritably. Molly writes down a note about the location, so that you can keep track of who gets the closest. 

 

“Aw, leave him alone. He’s precious.” You slip off the arm of the chair you’d been sitting on to watch and go and squeeze your husband’s hand. 

 

“Your turn now,” Mycroft says, only looking half-disapproving at what you’d just called him. He holds the blindfold up to you. 

 

“Oh God,” Sherlock groans. Greg and John snort. Molly giggles. Mrs. Hudson looks pleased. 

 

You take a shot first and then your lips keep twitching upwards as Mycroft puts the blindfold on you. When he leans in close so that he can fasten it you let out a little breath, before you come to feel giddy as he spins you around and around. 

 

“Here you go my dear. Take care of it won’t you?” Mycroft pushes the photo of the umbrella into your hand. 

 

“You do know that it’s not real don’t you?” you hear Sherlock saying in the background. You snort, but your face becomes more serious when you feel Mycroft guiding you forward. 

 

“There.” He lets go of you. 

 

You swallow. There’s light coming from beneath the blindfold, but in front of you is just a patch of darkness. You move forwards and put a hand out to support you. It rubs across the poster. You think you hear what sounds like sniggering coming from Greg and Mycroft clearing his throat. You grin crookedly, wondering whereabouts your hand is in relation to Mycroft’s image on the poster. Trying to get a better sense of things you straighten up some more. You know that photo Mycroft’s head had been just above where yours was at your full height. So, _technically_ …you shift forwards some more, raising the hand, which is clasping at the image of the umbrella. You lift it just above you, before you run it down. _“There.”_ Feeling satisfied you push the photo into the poster until you can feel it sticking. Laughter, both jubilant and nervous reaches your ears. You frown. You’d thought that you must have gotten pretty close. But when you hear Mycroft repeatedly clearing his throat you begin to get a little worried. _“What?”_ you begin, tugging at your blindfold, but you stop when you feel Mycroft’s hand upon your arm and hear him wrenching what must be the photo of the umbrella down from the poster in the next second. His grip grows lighter on you. “Where did I get it?” you say, finally pulling the blindfold off. 

 

“I’ll tell you in a moment,” Mycroft says, hurriedly handing the photo of the umbrella to Sherlock, so that he can prepare Greg for his turn. 

 

“Oh.” Mycroft begins to lead you further back. You peer up at him. His eyes seem determined not to look at you and if you’re not mistaken there’s a light blush upon his face. _“Oh,”_ you say again, as you come to a sudden realization. 

 

“Well,” Greg says as he steps up, “I don’t think I’ll be able to get as close as F/N did, but I’ll do my best to.” He grins at you mischievously. 

 

Your cheeks flush bright red and Mycroft smiles embarrassedly. 

 

Greg ends up close to the required target by getting the umbrella on Mycroft’s waist, but even though Molly gets his chest, Mrs. Hudson his foot, John, Mycroft’s hip and Sherlock his brother’s leg it already seems to have been decided that you’d won that game. Everybody else takes a shot. 

 

“It’s a nice day F/N,” Molly says, peering outside at where the light’s shining all around. 

 

It takes a moment of you looking at her to realize what she’s getting at. Then you grin when you think that her idea might assist in helping to cheer Mycroft up even further. “Yeah, it is isn't it?” you reply, before you turn to everyone. _“Boys,”_ your voice chimes out. The men all look at you, Mycroft doing so concernedly. “Molly, Mrs. Hudson and I have got some unfinished business to attend to in the garden. We’ll be heading upstairs briefly and then we’ll be heading out there.” You pause now. You know that by deliberately specifying such things it shouldn't be too long, before the men get intrigued and join you. At least that’s what you’re counting on. “I'm sure that Mycroft will entertain you?” You look at your husband. He nods a little confusedly, receiving your mixed messages but not knowing what to do with them. You lead the two other women out. 

 

*

 

It’s a little later. Mycroft has helped his brother, John and Greg to put everything they’d set up in the living room in a neat pile upon the coffee table, so that they can later be returned to Mrs. Hudson’s bag and they’re all now standing around a little impatiently as they drink a glass of scotch. 

 

“What do you suppose the girls are up to then?” Greg asks, looking between Mycroft and Sherlock as if they might have all the answers. 

 

Sherlock rolls his eyes as if to ask how he should know about what warped things you’re doing? 

 

“It could be that they’re doing a photo-shoot. I know that F/N and Molly attempted to do one in the garden before until it came to rain,” Mycroft says thoughtfully. 

 

Greg goggles at him. “Mycroft when you’ve got a hunch that hot girls are currently outside doing a photo-shoot you should probably say something.” Mycroft sends him a bit of a glare. “All right.” Greg raises his hands in supplication. “Molly and Mrs. Hudson are the only hot ones.”

 

“I'm glad that you’ve reached that conclusion Detective Inspector,” Mycroft says icily, giving him a bit of a severe look. “I would not have to want to say that you can’t come around here any more because you’ve got feelings for my wife.” Greg swallows. Mycroft draws his gaze away from the other man. It’s only then that he realizes that Sherlock and John have already left. “Bugger,” he says. Letting out a bit of a sigh Mycroft leads Greg to the brown and white tiled area with railings that’s at the back of the house. Cream steps either side of it lead down to the lawns and the life-size chess set. 

 

Sherlock and John are already there, drinks in hand. Half-turned they look admiringly out at where Mrs. Hudson, Molly and you are carrying out your photo-shoot on the chess set. Mycroft’s just about to address them when he hears some one calling his name. Coming to a stop in between Sherlock and John he looks out to see the side view of you as you ride upon the black knight in a long, sophisticated white dress, your hair flowing around you. Your eyes are looking straight at him, you’ve got a pearl necklace around your neck and the very sight of you reminds him of those old black and white films that he sometimes watches. He’s glad that this one is in colour though because the ray of light, which shines across you helps to make you look even more enchanting. Molly and Mrs. Hudson-both in navy dresses that they've borrowed from you-are standing to the side of you, crossing and uncrossing two of his closed umbrellas. He knows that you must have done this to help improve his mood, to help him focus on the good of the present instead on the pain of the past and he feels even more appreciative of you. 

 

“Bloody hell,” Greg says, breaking off Mycroft’s thought as he leans forwards and clutches onto the railings. 

 

Mycroft smiles and finds that he has to agree with his sentiments, feeling proud that out of all the men there he’s the only one who can call you his. He straightens up however when you wave and call, “Hey, Mr. British Government!”-Mycroft looks around nervously, before he remembers that your neighbours are at an acceptable distance to not have heard that-“Fancy a ride on my steed?”

 

Sherlock looks at his brother with a raised eyebrow. John snorts when he sees how Mycroft swallows twice. Greg’s too busy staring at you still. 

 

Mycroft hurries down the steps towards you. “F/N,” he says once Mrs. Hudson and Molly have moved aside and he’s looking up at you. “I think you should go and change. Your attire is starting to affect the others. Gregory especially seems”-

 

“I'm not interested in what it’s doing to the others. Only you.” You slip off the knight and Mycroft pulls you to his body with his arms. _“Oh,”_ you say, looking at Mycroft’s dilated pupils and parted lips approvingly. He kisses you hungrily then, his hands on your waist, pushing you back until you’re trapped between him and the knight. Greg wolf-whistles and snaps a few photos of it on his phone, Sherlock puts his head in his hands and John grins, but a blushing Molly and a satisfied Mrs. Hudson open the umbrellas and use them to cover Mycroft and you to give you more privacy. 

 

 _“Mycroft,”_ you breathe longingly as your lips part, your eyes full of desire. Your hands touch at his shirt. Your thumbs rub there. 

 

“Is it time for cake yet?” Mycroft asks you flirtatiously. 

 

“I think it might be”-

 

“And then?”

 

 _“Then?”_ You raise your eyebrows at him. 

 

He leans in close and you can feel his breath dancing against your ear as he says, “Will we have the place to ourselves?”

 

You feel breathless and deliciously satisfied at just the thought. You nod, ready for such a thing now. 

 

You kiss briefly again, your lips sharing in all the promise of later, before Mrs. Hudson, Molly and you go and get your clothes changed. 

 

You divert from the others who head back to the sitting room, so that you can go to the kitchen and get the cake sorted. Then you call everyone in. 

 

As he follows them all Mycroft’s not sure what he’s expecting. A simple affair probably. But when he enters he finds that you’ve decked the table out in a red tablecloth and laid everyone a place with gleaming cutlery, sparkling white plates and an accompanying glass of champagne. The room is lit by red candles. It is the centrepiece of the table that his eyes go to the most however. For there, on a little silver stand, rests a sumptuous two-tiered cake. Its sides are full of curly cream and pressed into them are chocolate flakes along with chocolate shaped umbrellas. Mycroft’s mouth gets close to watering just by looking at them. Whilst on the top of the cake, along with more blobs of cream, chocolate sprinkles are cherries and the words: _‘Happy Birthday Mycroft,’_ along with two chocolate kisses and another umbrella to the side. Mycroft finds himself smiling. Around the words lay more red candles, all lit and ready. Mycroft’s eyes, as do everyone else’s, go to you. 

 

You stand at the head of the table, chewing on your lip nervously as you hold your own glass of champagne. You’re now in a floor length and very attractive f/c dress, your hair loose around your shoulders. “Before we dig in and have some cake I’d like to say a few words.” Your eyes go to Mycroft’s. Mycroft’s breath catches in his chest. “Mycroft, I know its probably been a bit touch and go as to whether you’ve enjoyed the day.” There’s an appreciative chuckling at that and you smile emotionally. “But it’s like I was trying to tell you earlier you make me feel so, _so_ special, every single day”-you catch Sherlock smiling crookedly now and it makes you do the same-“I just had to do something for you…especially since just a short time ago something happened, which might have made today impossible.” Both Sherlock and Mycroft’s faces grow tense as they understand what you’re referring to. Everyone else stiffens. That day had all affected them in some way. In fact a lot of events in the last year have. “Thankfully today’s happening, but it’s not lost on me that, but for luck, we might not all be standing here.” You take a pause then and all of your minds go to Mary for a moment. You let out a bit of a sniff. You meet John’s eyes and he inclines his head ever so slightly. “Everything that’s happened in the past year is one of the reasons that I wanted to get us all together today.” You look around at them all. “But I also wanted to because on that day at Sherrinford something very important happened and I think we all saw a different side to the man who has since become my husband.” Your eyes go to Mycroft now. “Mycroft, I know for the most part you’ve been trying to act like everyone looks at you in the same way since that day, but they don’t and nor should we. On that day you showed us just how kind, decent, brave and honourable you are. You showed too a more vulnerable side of yourself that I know that you don’t want to talk about any more than you want to discuss that day itself, but I think sometimes it’s important that we do so and that we do acknowledge that side of you because without it then I'm not sure if you would have ever let me in. I know that so many awful things have happened in the past year, but that was one of the good things. So I wanted to thank you. Thank you for coming to find me once that hell was over. Thank you most importantly for trusting me, for opening yourself up to me. Thank you for being the most-the most amazing husband that I could have ever asked for.” Your lip wobbles. “I think about that day a lot, and I don’t know what I would have done if I’d lost you then. I would have missed out on so much, so thank you for all that you have given me.” Tears spill out of your eyes. “Sorry, I told myself I wouldn't cry.” 

 

Mycroft is by your side at once. “Of course I’ve enjoyed the day.” He pecks at your forehead briskly. “Don’t be silly.” He takes a handkerchief out of his pocket now and hands it to you. You bury your face in it. Mycroft’s eyes soften and he draws you close to him one-handedly. “I would never have died without first telling you that I love you,” he whispers for your ears alone. 

 

“To Mycroft,” Sherlock does the toast that you cannot make.

 

 _“Mycroft,”_ grows up the rumble in the room as your body trembles against Mycroft’s and he keeps his head close to yours, whilst he holds onto you firmly. 

 

You draw back from each other slowly, and then, sniffing a bit still, you make to take your place at the table. You’d decided that Mycroft should be at its head and that you’d be on the side next to him, but he taps at your arm and gestures that you should take up the spot at the head of the table instead. “It’s only fitting after what you’ve just said. No one could have said anything nicer about me.”

 

You smile in a pleased fashion at that and take your seat there. When Mycroft’s hand goes towards the cake however you spring up and say, “Oh no.” Mycroft’s hand draws away in alarm. His mind wonders what you’re about to say to keep him from his cake now. “Mycroft, I know you’re not going to like this”-Greg grins-“But before we cut it we need to do the honours”-

 

“No F/N.” Mycroft looks at you. “No singing, please. I beg of you.”

 

Your lip curls upward at that and then you lead everyone in a rendition of _‘Happy Birthday to You.’_ Your voice rises above them all, lifted up a little by Sherlock’s rumbling baritone. Greg and John do some erratic swaying to the beat, stomping more than singing. Mrs. Hudson sings the words quietly as if she’s still, even now, reserving judgement about Mycroft and Molly sings them politely, swallowed up by everyone else even though as usual she tries not to be. Mycroft wishes that he could get swallowed up in a different sense. A forced smile remains upon his face for the duration of the song, more for your benefit than anyone else’s. It gets stretched to the limit though when you all reach the part where you say his name and the sound of it all gets ugly as you distinctly sing, ‘Husband,’ Sherlock says, ‘Brother dear’ and everyone else just sings, ‘Mycroft.’ When it’s all over he lets out a breath of relief. 

 

You look at him and squeeze at his hand knowingly. Mycroft thinks the torture is over and manages a brave smile for you, but then you say, “Well dear husband, aren't you going to make a wish?” with one eyebrow raised. 

 

“Yes, I wish right now that everyone would just go home,” he says in a hurried breath. 

 

You look at him severely. 

 

 _“Mycroft Holmes!”_ Mrs. Hudson screeches, once more appalled by his apparent lack of gratitude. 

 

Mycroft’s gaze goes to her in alarm and then to you quickly again and something different comes over his eyes, something softer and more considering, before he blows out his candles obediently. Much to his chagrin though, as he does so John and Greg let off some party poppers, which makes him very almost jump and his breath wobble. He straightens up again with a disapproving look about his face.

 

You take your seats, leaving Mycroft to cut the cake and a burst of merry chatter breaks out again. 

 

He hands you your piece last and sits down beside you with his own. He breaks off a piece of it and stabs it with the miniature fork you’ve provided them all with, before he holds it towards you. 

 

“Shouldn't I be doing that to you?” you ask, feeling nervous, but flattered all the same. 

 

He shakes his head and everyone grows quiet as they watch him tenderly feeding you. Just this time last year it would have been a miracle if any one of them had witnessed this. If you’d looked at her in that moment then you would have seen that Mrs. Hudson looks more satisfied than ever. 

 

“Mm.” You draw back, some of the cream still on your lips. “It’s good. Even if I say so myself.” 

 

Everyone laughs. 

 

*

 

That night, once your bellies have been filled with even more cake and in a post-coital glow, Mycroft and you lie in bed, just staring up at the ceiling, his arm slightly bent and crossed over yours. 

 

You both think back on the day. Mycroft thinks about how he’d been grumpy, irritable at having his day not the way he’d thought it was going to be. He thinks back to when everyone had first arrived and how he’d tried to sneak back to the study. He feels guilty and ungrateful. In that moment he’d wanted to be someone else, _anyone_ else, but somehow, through the course of the day that had largely changed and despite the continuous embarrassments there had actually been long, clear stretches where he’d felt glad to be him. Glad that, despite everything that’s happened and all the ordeals that he’s had to face he’d been able to be here, on this day, celebrating his birthday with his brother, people who he could genuinely trust in a crisis and more importantly you. He’s left in no doubt who’s largely responsible for making him feel that way either. He looks at you. 

 

You stroke at his chest absent-mindedly. “You know, I’ve been wondering. What did Mrs. Hudson say to you earlier?” 

 

Mycroft can’t know that you’re wishing that you could be like Mrs. Hudson one day. Able to be so forceful and forthright and get someone to do what you want just like that. If he had then he probably would have remarked that you’re not doing too badly already. He can see however that you’re looking at him enquiringly and almost as if you’re a little scared by what he might be about to say. “She told me many things,” he utters. You turn towards him, propping your head up with your hand. He thinks about how Mrs. Hudson, as well as asking him if he really wanted to argue with you on his birthday had told him how you’re a young woman who’s growing in confidence, but not quite there yet and how she wasn’t going to allow him to take anything away from you. He swallows. He knows that you’d be insulted if he told you that. You’d tell him that you don’t need looking after even though you do. Everyone it does seems in the end. Even him. Being reminded more now about what Mrs. Hudson had told him and of everything that’s made him feel grateful for you during the day he puts an arm around you, brushing at your hair. You nestle closer. “But one of the main things that she chose to remind me of was how this time last year I was isolated, alone.” You shift, moving further away from him and placing a hand upon his chest. You look concerned. You don’t like thinking of him in that way. “She told me that I was probably at my desk, working. I said that I probably was. She then went on to”-he smiles in a melancholy fashion at this-“Tell me that I’d be there again if I didn't do anything to stop it. Only there’d be no coming back from it this time because I would have lost my chance for something more.” He looks at you. There’s something intent in his eyes. You can’t know how grateful he is for you in that moment, but you can feel… _something._ “So she said that I had two choices. I could either return with her to the sitting room, apologize to you-she placed particular emphasis on that”-you smile-“And more than that embrace the present that I should be having or risk being alone on future birthdays and filled with even more regret.” 

 

You feel like you’re barely breathing. “So you chose”-

 

“Of course I chose you. In fact I chose everyone just like you chose to bring them all here today. I couldn't be any more grateful to you for that.” You let out a whoosh of breath, before you reach to kiss him quickly. He looks at you in a scrutinizing fashion as you pull apart. “I know I didn't have much back then, and that I still favour sarcasm and a need to be alone at times, but you must know that whatever I might say I didn't want to die that day.” He looks at you as if it is most important that you understand this point. 

 

“I know that.” You wrap an arm tighter around his chest. 

 

“I wanted to see Sherlock again. I did not want him to be left with that burden. _I…_ wanted to see you.” He rolls towards you and you kiss in a desperate, brief fashion where Mycroft cups at your cheek with one hand, before he lets go of you again and moves onto his back. “F/N, thank you,” he says. 

 

“What for?” 

 

“For reminding me that sometimes it’s nice to be with people.” He looks at you and you know that, that’s the closest he’ll ever get to thanking you for loving him and for being there.

 

You feel emotional, but you decide to joke, “Well, I think we have Mrs. Hudson to partly thank for that too,” because you’ve both been close enough to tears on this day as it is. 

 

Mycroft snorts. You share another kiss. 

 

Then you switch the bedside lamp off at last and curl up together, Mycroft holding you forever and always, as the light retreats at the end of another day.


End file.
